


Shut Up and Kill Me

by betts



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fluff, Loss of Virginity, Magical Healing Cock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Suicidal Thoughts, if only a hot assassin were around to fuck the will to live in all of us, the world would be a much happier place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: For the prompt: Clarke has had enough of life and goes on the dark web to hire a hitman to kill her with his bare hands. When the hitman arrives and starts to do as he's paid to, he is astounded to find she's not fighting back and demands to know why. She tells him she hired him to kill her, and he's so annoyed that someone would be so dumb he fucks her instead and then convinces her to live.





	Shut Up and Kill Me

Clarke is a chickenshit. She tried the pills and booze route a few months back, and ended up getting her stomach pumped, followed by a three-day stint in an in-patient unit, and a hospital bill a mile long. She’d played the event off as a party gone wrong. Slitting her wrists, a gun to the head — there’s no way she’d have the guts to do it. Everyone says suicide is the coward’s way out, but really it’s the hardest thing. Meat suits are strong motherfuckers. They don’t go easy.   
  
Like all of her problems, she solves this one with a pile of money and a blatant disregard for morality. It turns out, hiring a hitman is way easier than it should be. Not much different than ordering a pizza, really. And if nothing else comes of it, she now knows that it costs $3,275 to strangle an upper-middle class college drop-out in her sleep. She doesn’t know how anyone is still alive, with a reasonable rate like that.  
  
The only downside is that she doesn’t get to pick the day it happens. If you could leave Yelp reviews for assassins, she’d take a half star away. Every night she goes to bed prepared not to wake up. Every morning she wakes up disappointed. After two weeks, she wonders if hitman phishing scams are a thing, and maybe she got swindled. Maybe right now, someone is depleting her crypto-currency account.  
  
On Thursday night, she falls asleep prepared to wake up and ask for her hitman’s manager or pimp or whoever they take orders from, when she hears her bedroom window slide open, and a body crawling into her room. She peeks out the slit of her eye — a big guy, naturally, yet graceful. He’s wearing all black, which is disappointingly predictable. Maybe he's just a plain old burglar. She thought assassins would have more flare.  
  
She turns onto her back to give him better access to her throat, feels him go still until her breathing falls back into an even rhythm. He comes to the side of her bed and hovers over her. She doesn’t dare open her eyes, but she’s unnerved by how long he’s taking. Maybe he’ll rape her before he kills her, which seems against the rules somehow, not that there were any Terms of Service she had to agree to before making her purchase. She didn't even have to prove she wasn't a robot.  
  
Finally his gloved hands wrap around her throat. He’s surprisingly gentle. The echo of her pulse throbs against his palm. The moment he starts squeezing her windpipe, her body relaxes into the feeling. Escape is so close. Now she can’t drag in a breath, not that she’s really trying. Pressure gathers behind her eyes; tears drip from the corners. Another minute maybe, two, and it’ll all be over. It’s not nearly as unpleasant as she imagined. Definitely better than pills and booze.  
  
Then he lets go. She opens her eyes and says, “Why’d you stop?”  
  
He lifts his ski mask up to his forehead. He’s really very attractive, as far as hitmen go. She wouldn’t mind him being her last sight.  
  
“Why aren’t you fighting?” he asks.  
  
“I didn’t pay you to ask me existential questions. I paid you to kill me.”  
  
“You hired a hit on yourself?”  
  
“I don’t want everyone thinking I committed suicide. I have a reputation.”  
  
He sits on the edge of her bed and rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus.”  
  
“I’m not the praying type, but if you must, go ahead.”  
  
“This is so fucked up. You know this is fucked up, right?”  
  
She tugs at his hand and puts it on her neck. “Please get back to work.”  
  
He jerks his hand right back. “You know how fucking stupid this is? I get paid to kill bad guys, okay. You’re not a bad guy. You’re just a —” He looks around her bedroom, at her bookshelf and iMac and trophies and stuffed animals. “Girl.”  
  
“A very sad girl, so if you would please —”  
  
“Why are you sad?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be sad? We have a literal demon for a president. There’s human trafficking and slave labor and shitty healthcare and the planet is literally dying. I’m jumping off the Titanic.”  
  
“Come on.” He plucks a photograph from beside her bed. It’s a picture of her and Wells at graduation. “What about this guy?”  
  
“That’s Wells.”  
  
“Isn’t Wells worth living for?”  
  
“Wells is dead.”  
  
“Shit.” He sets the frame back down.

“Look, it’s very nice of you to be concerned with my mental health. I have five hundred dollars cash in my drawer you can take as a tip if you’d like. But you’re a hitman, and I’d like to be hit.”  
  
He pulls up his sleeve and looks at his watch. “It’s not even midnight. We have plenty of time. Let’s talk about this.”  
  
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine.”  
  
“Tell me why you want to kill yourself.”  
  
“I already told you.”  
  
“You told me about political and social anxieties, which are a red herring. So tell me the real reason.”  
  
She plays with the tag on her comforter, the one that’s illegal to take off. “I don’t know, okay? I just. Every time I think of the future, it’s like hitting a wall. Every path I see myself taking ends in failure and killing myself. It’s like, the second I get distracted with a book or a movie or something, as soon as it’s over, I get smashed in the face with existential dread. For a long time I tried to fight it, but it’s exhausting. Eventually the voices make sense. Eventually I have to give in.”  
  
“Fuck, that’s intense." He pauses, and casually adds, "I’ve never thought about killing myself.”  
  
“Just other people.”  
  
“I don’t really think about that, either. You can’t, in my line of work. Just gotta do the job and walk away.”  
  
They settle into the kind of awkward silence that can only be found between a hitman and the suicidal client who hired him.   
  
“You want a cup of tea or anything?” she asks.  
  
“That’d be great.”

She gets out of bed and he follows her into the kitchen. She cleaned her entire apartment meticulously, knowing paramedics and police and family would be coming in and out for several days after her death. It seemed like the polite thing to do. She fills the kettle, puts it on the burner, and takes down two mugs from the cabinet.  
  
“Any preference?” she asks.  
  
He takes a seat at the kitchen table. “No caffeine, please. Trying to cut back.”  
  
She makes a sympathetic noise. “Must make your job more difficult.”  
  
“You have no idea. I’m useless with a snipe now. Can't lie down for more than ten minutes without dozing off.”  
  
“How did you become a hitman, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
  
“How does anyone become anything? Desperation and an inability to do something more lucrative.”  
  
“We do what we’re good at,” Clarke agrees with a nod.  
  
“What do you do?”  
  
“Not to be a stereotype, but I’m an artist.”  
  
“Should’ve guessed.”  
  
The kettle whistles and she fills the mugs, brings them over to the table, and sets them down. She takes a seat across from him and stirs in some sugar from her bowl, which is in the shape of a lemon. She made it in fifth grade art class.  
  
She’s finally getting a good look at him — dark skin, freckles, a few scars. He’s taken off his ski mask and deposited it on the table. His hair is curly and messy, and if she lives long enough, she might ask to draw him. There’s something about him that’s so compelling. Maybe it's that he’s murdered a lot of people, or just the cute dimple in his chin.

“Do you like your job?” she asks.  
  
“It’s okay,” he says. “I like when I get to kill like, degenerates, you know? Crime bosses. Rapists. Rich people.”  
  
“And what if you kill someone who isn’t a degenerate?”  
  
“I do the job, then I go home and get really high.”  
  
“That’s the only way to live.”  
  
He lifts his mug in cheers and she taps it with her own. They continue talking about work and the economy and politics —   
  
“Why hasn’t anyone tried to assassinate the president?” she asks.  
  
“No one can afford it," he says. "This might come as a shock, but the killing-people business is a bit classist."   
  
— then, after the tea is gone and the clock is ticking over to three, they work their way back to the topic at hand. She tells him Wells and her father got into a car accident, and her mother is so buried in grief that she took up a pill addiction, and Raven is getting married to an Air Force pilot and Clarke is the maid of honor, which is good news but it still makes Clarke miserable.  
  
“There’s this girl I liked for a long time, Lexa,” she adds, hands wrapped around the now-cold mug. “But I think she was just leading me on. Nothing ever happened with her.”  
  
“That sucks.”  
  
“And not that it matters or anything, but I’m a virgin.”   
  
His head snaps up. He looks horrified. “But you’re hot. How are you a virgin?”  
  
“This might come as a surprise, but I’m kind of an unpleasant person.”  
  
“But, you want to have sex right? That’s part of the problem? A lack of intimacy or whatever?”  
  
“I mean, I guess?”  
  
He seems to consider something for a long moment. “Okay. I’ll fuck you.”  
  
She gapes at him. “I’m not going to have sex with my hitman.”  
  
“Just hear me out. I’ll fuck you, and if you still want to die, I’ll kill you, okay? I promise.”  
  
He really is very good-looking. And honestly, this is the best conversation she’s had in months, maybe years. He’s a good listener, well-read, up to date on current events, polite. Sweet, really. In another circumstance, she might really like him.   
  
“Fine, okay,” she says. “We can try it.”

* * *

In her bedroom, she says, “How does this work?”  
  
“How is that even a question?” He pulls off his gloves finally, tosses one on her desk and then the other.   
  
“I don’t get out much.”  
  
“Take off your clothes.”   
  
“I don’t want to.”  
  
He pulls off his sweater. “I can’t fuck you through your pajamas, as sexy as they are.”

She had chosen her favorite cow-print PJs to die in, which had been a difficult choice given her equal preference for her sushi PJs.  
  
“Turn around,” she says.  
  
So he does, and she quickly undresses, then climbs under the covers. In the process, he’d taken off the rest of his clothes. Now her hitman is naked and palming his dick and she pulls her covers over her face.  
  
“I thought the next time someone saw me naked, I would be dead,” she says, muffled under the covers. He pulls them back to look at her.  
  
“You’re cute.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
He tugs the covers away and crawls underneath them, beside her, and she impulsively turns toward the wall. She can feel his entire body curled against her back — his big, warm body, touching her in places no one ever has ever touched her or has even wanted to.  
  
“I can fuck you like this too,” he says by her ear, and it’s true. She can feel his cock pressed against her ass. “If you don’t want it, I can leave.”  
  
She reaches behind her to grab his wrist and bring it to her front. “No. Stay.”  
  
“Look at me, then. Let me kiss you.”  
  
“You want to kiss me?”  
  
“Of course I want to kiss you.”  
  
She turns on her back, the way she was lying when he first tried to strangle her. His fingers lightly graze her throat. “I hurt you.”  
  
“Yes that was the point.”  
  
He leans down and presses a kiss to her neck, another by her ear, one on her cheek, before finally settling to her lips. She’s been kissed before, but it’s been a long time. It’s a bit like a bicycle in that she’s wobbly at first but then gets the hang of it again. His mouth is soft and insistent, and she realizes that she doesn’t know his name, and doesn’t feel it’s appropriate to ask.  
  
“You’re gorgeous,” he says when he pulls away. He drags his thumb across her lower lip.  
  
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”  
  
“I’m really not.”  
  
“Let’s just get this over with. I should have been dead hours ago.”  
  
He lifts up over her, nudges his way between her legs, and starts kissing down her body. “I’m taking my time with you. If these are your last moments alive, I want to make them count.”  
  
She sighs in frustration, which quickly turns into one of surprise as he rolls his tongue over one of her nipples.  
  
“You’ve got such pretty tits,” he mumbles onto her skin, “I could spend hours here.”  
  
“We don’t have hours.”  
  
“We have all the time in the world. What do you have to lose?”  
  
He’s got a point there. She lets him continue lavishing oral attention and muttered praise onto her chest. She tries not to respond but can’t really help it, starts making high-pitched sounds and squirming beneath him.   
  
Finally he continues downward, taking the covers with him, and settles between her legs. He kisses down her inner thigh and hesitates before reaching her center. She can feel him watching her, so she opens her eyes and says, “What?”  
  
“You haven’t said anything in a while.”  
  
“Because I’m — waiting.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“You.”  
  
“To do what?”  
  
“You know.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“To do what you’re about to do.”  
  
He moves to her other thigh and bites down, sucks in hard until it hurts. She yelps and grips his hair.   
  
“There you go,” he says. “Show me where to go. Show me you know how to want something.”  
  
She can’t stand the thought of him teasing any longer, so she guides his mouth to her cunt. She can feel him smiling smugly. Thankfully she shaved everything in preparation for her autopsy, not wanting to gross out her coroner or mortician with unsightly body hair.

He slips his tongue out and licks a light stripe over her slit. She nearly cries out, but doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.   
  
Finally he eats her out in earnest, sucks her clit and slides a finger into her — “Fuck you’re tight” — and she’s stunned by how quickly he brings her to the edge. She owns one sex toy, a cheap vibrator she got at the mall. Whenever she masturbates, it’s quick and efficient, never more intense than a sneeze, and silent. Now, though, she finds herself moaning, twisting the sheets in her fists, spreading her legs wider. He slides in a second finger and the stretch pinches a little, but somehow that adds to the allure of it.   
  
Her orgasm shocks her, and when she realizes she’s about to cry out, she takes the pillow from under her head and screams into it, her hips rocking against his face, his fingers pounding into her.   
  
She lowers the pillow, blitzed out and exhausted. It’s so far past her bedtime. He kisses her and she tastes herself on him and it’s not bad at all. His cock is hard and grazing her soaked pussy. She jolts on each pass over her clit.   
  
“Ready?” he asks.  
  
“Don’t we need a condom or something?”  
  
“Condom implies you’re going to live to see the consequences. Are you?”  
  
She purses her lips. “No. Go ahead and fuck me. It doesn’t matter.”  
  
Faster than she can brace herself, he pushes into her, hard, all the way to the hilt in a single motion. The pain is blinding like being tossed into a freezing lake, and when he pulls out, it's a relief. He slams into her again, which hikes her up an inch toward her headboard, and the headboard slams against the wall. She hopes her neighbors don’t call the cops before her hitman can even finish his job she paid him for.   
  
“Want you —” She starts, mind blanking on what she’s really asking for.  
  
“Want me to what?”   
  
She reaches for one of his hands and puts it on her throat. “Like before.”  
  
“I’m not going to kill you while I fuck you.”  
  
“Please.”  
  
His hand clenches over her throat, and he fucks her hard and fast. The pain bleeds away into pleasure. When she can’t bring in a breath, the blissful feeling washes over her again, like she can just let go. She notices distantly he’s saying something about how she’s clenching down on him, and that’s true, her whole body is tense, fighting him this time unlike before, scratching his arms and squeezing his hips with her thighs. She can hardly control herself, and that’s the best feeling of all, taking a backseat to life itself, every decision out of her hands. Blackness creeps into her periphery. Maybe he'll actually do it, but the idea doesn't bring her any relief. If she dies, she won't get to feel him come inside her. The thought shocks her. She hasn't wanted anything this badly since she was a child.  
  
He lets go. The sudden inhale shoves her over the edge. She comes instantly, back arching off the bed, cunt gripping his cock and dragging him more deeply into her. He seems to have lost control too, hands on her hips, fucking her harder onto him, until he stills and comes with a ragged groan.  
  
“Fuck,” he says, falling on top of her, sweaty and heaving.  
  
She pats his back in a way she hopes conveys he did a good job. Her brain feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton — from pleasure or oxygen deprivation, she’s not sure. He rolls onto his side, slipping out of her, peppering her cheek and neck with kisses so affectionate, she almost forgets why he came here at all. It's nice to have a body beside her. Maybe she really was just lonely.  
  
They lie tangled up together, breathing. Morning birds sing outside her still-open window.   
  
“I don’t want to kill you,” he says. "There's not enough weed in the world to make me forget you."  
  
Slowly, she comes to two conclusions:   
  
First, if he does kill her, he will be caught, because his jizz is inside her, and his fingerprints and DNA are all over her apartment. She just wanted to die, not ruin anybody’s life.  
  
And secondly, “If you can make me feel like that..." She curls into his arms, her head tucked under his chin. It feels good here. She's not used to feeling good. "I guess I can see what tomorrow is like."

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter, tumblr, and dw as bettsfic.


End file.
